2023—Flying with the Angels

She was my companion for 22 years. And what a fascinating 22 years it was. Bobo, the Red-lored Amazon. Her feathers were brilliant and eye-catching: emerald green, pale blue, bright red, and lemon yellow. Her voice was a lilting wolf whistle, or an ear-piercing shriek, or a subtle clicking (I never knew what I might have agreed to when I responded with my own clicking), or the occasional “Hi, Bobo!” or even the single word, “well!” with a rising inflection that meant so much. Her constant companion was a dried chili pepper, a security blanket of sorts that was deposited at the end of wherever she ventured in exchange for something else so I always knew where she’d been. I bear scars from her bites; she was not a parrot that could be handled unless it was on her terms. Before turning out the lights in the evening, I would sit in front of her cage and she would lay her head in my lap and allow me to scratch her head, until it didn’t suit her and the beak presented itself. On Tuesday, she had a stroke. I knew something had gone terribly wrong and I took her to the Vet. They let me hold her, wrapped in a towel, until the end, something I hadn’t done much during our lives together. She enriched my life and I am poorer now that she is gone. I will miss her. She is flying with the angels now.